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The Fugitive 



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A DRAMA IN FOUR ACTS 

BY J. S. WOODHOUSE 
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THE FUGITIVE 



THE FUGITIVE 

A DRAMA IN FOUR ACTS 



BY 



J. S. WOODHOUSE 




DES MOINES, IOWA 
NINETEEN THIRTEEN 



Copyright Edition 

Limited to 1000 copies, of which this is 

No. 









Copyrighted 1912 

Copyrighted 1913 

By J. S. Woodhouse 

Printed July 1913 



THE TORCH PRESS 

CEDAR RAPIDS 

IOWA 



iCID 33851 



CHARACTERS 

Tompkins — Servant in Hart's home. 
Charles Smith — Manager of Hart's factory and in 
love with Sylvia Hart. He has a scar on his cheek. 

Sylvia Hart — Daughter of Hart and in love with 
Richard Wallick. 

Jacob B. Hart — Owner of shoe factory, employing 
prison labor. 

Grace Cameron — Actress, playing "Juliet" at the 
American theatre and friend to Sylvia. 

Harley Meyers — Actor at the American and in love 
with Grace. 

Kichard Wallick — Playing "Romeo" at the Ameri- 
can and in love with Sylvia. 

James — Wallick 's servant. 

Bill Simons — Burglar and convict. 

Edwards — Assistant to Warden in Penitentiary. 

Geo. Landers — Warden of Penitentiary. 

Jack Campbell — Manager of American Company. 

Officers, Actors, etc. 



ACT I 

The scene is an elaborate reception room in a modern 
metropolitan home on a Monday afternoon at two. 
At the left is a sm,all exit door. Back of this at the 
rear an alcove window draped with heavy veloir 
curtains. A little distance to the right appears an 
entrance door, back of which is a small cloak room 
filled with ladies and gentlemen's wraps. At the 
right is a large arch door, obliquely from the room, 
through which comes strains of soft dance music and 
the hum of voices, the owners of which are hidden 
from the audience by palms and banks of flowers. 
The servant, Tompkins, is discovered in the center 
of the room on his tiptoes, peeking over the foliage 
and making a count of those in the ball room and 
indicating each count with his finger. While thus 
engaged Charles Smith enters and removes his own 
coat. 

TOMPKINS {To himself)— Twenty-four, twenty-five, 
twenty-six. Four more before I may leave the 
door. I wonder if it be they who have not come? 

SMITH — All here Tompkins? 

TOMPKINS — I beg your pardon Mr. Smith (tak- 
ing his wraps). Three more besides yourself, sir. 



8 THE FUGITIVE 

SMITH — Why this new diversion of turning day into 
night ? 

TOMPKINS — Account of these actor folks, friends 
of Miss Sylvia. They have to be at the theatre 
nights, you know, so she is giving this afternoon 
party in honor of Miss Cameron, who plays "Ju- 
liet ' ' in the present run at the American. 

SMITH — She seems fond of this Miss Cameron ? 

TOMPKINS — Very much, indeed, sir. They ride 
very often forenoons and Miss Sylvia visits her at 
the theatre two or three times every week. 

SMITH — How came they to know each other, Tomp- 
kins? 

TOMPKINS — An odd chance, sir. It was a Sunday. 
You see some how or other the actress ripped the 
sole off her shoe. The stores were all closed and in 
her dilemma she came here to ask Mr. Hart to get 
her a new pair from the factory. He went for them 
himself and While she waited she visited with Sylvia, 
talking about life on the stage. Miss Sylvia ex- 
pressed a wish she might see behind the scenes. 
The invitation was of course given and Miss Sylvia, 
who you know has a liking for things unconvention- 
al, promptly accepted. After that they were very 
good friends and she went very often to the theatre. 

SMITH — And eliminated her visits to the factory, 
where her sympathy for the prisoners, had led her 
almost daily. Strange! Such neglect seems un- 
like her. 



THE FUGITIVE 9 

TOMPKINS — Of course, sir, I have no proof, and 
perhaps as a servant should not think, but I have 
suspected — 

SYLVIA (entering from ballroom) — Mr. Smith! 
Foregoing your work to add to the success of my 
party is indeed complimentary to me ! 

SMITH — I am glad of an opportunity to see you. 
Tompkins ! Will you ask Mr. Hart to see me here 
a few minutes ? (To Sylvia : ) You see, your pret- 
ty folly doesn't quite fit business customs and I 
must ask your indulgence for a few minutes' diver- 
sion of your father 's time. 

SYLVIA — You aren 't inconvenienced at the factory, 
I trust, by my little eccentricity ? 

SMITH — Nothing could so inconvenience us as your 
sudden neglect to visit the factory of late. That has 
made work a double burden for me. 

SYLVIA — It isn 't pleasant to see those convicts 
working like slaves, making shoes for the free. 

SMITH — They are none the less slaves to the state 
than to you, Miss Sylvia. They love you, every one 
of them. 

SYLVIA — Why ? What have I ever done ? 

SMITH — You have always given each a kind word 
and smile. It has bought the heart of all. 

SYLVIA — Are hearts so cheap ? 

SMITH — No ; your smiles so dear. 

SYLVIA — You flatter. 

SMITH — No ; I speak from the heart as one enslaved. 



10 THE FUGITIVE 

SYLVIA — I must return to my guests. Will you — 

SMITH — Miss Sylvia, this opportunity has been long 
in coming. You must hear me. I am the greatest 
slave of all. I love you. For years I have been 
your father's manager. The work would have been 
bitter indeed did I not teach myself to believe that I 
toiled for your interest and your happiness. Since 
then it has been a work of love. I want to work for 
your whole life 's happiness. Will you let me serve 
you as a husband ? 

SYLVIA — I would be false to you and to myself, for 
I do not love you. 

SMITH — Then you must learn. Promise me — (Hart 
enters and Smith diverts his meaning) you will 
come to the prison factory again tomorrow. For the 
men 's sake. Will you ? 

SYLVIA — Yes, for the men 's sake. (Exit. ) 

HART — Now what? 

SMITH — I love her. 

HART — Well? 

SMITH — I want her for my wife. 

HART — You know, my boy, wives aren 't secured by 
the same methods you would employ to get a shoe 
contract. I like you. Without knowledge of your 
parents, a graduate only of an orphan's home, no 
friends, and yet to prove such ability as you have 
shown in the management of my business instills 
confidence in me that you are of the right material. 
I wouldn't object to having you for a son-in-law. 



THE FUGITIVE 11 

I'll help you and I dare say she'll be yours. But 
you must take your time. Women aren't won by 
logic, but by frivolities. Be nice to her and leave 
off the love speeches. I '11 keep the path clear. You 
attack the heart with bonbons and roses. Have 
some man at the factory make her a pretty pair of 
slippers — the finest ever made. That 's the way. 
Now then, what of this business ? 

SMITH — Another man 's escaped. 

HART — Well, that's the state's lookout. 

SMITH — But our working force is now so depleted 
we cannot fill the orders we have contracted. We 
cannot mix outside labor with the prison workers. 
There have been more vacancies caused by paroles 
and escapes than can be filled by new convicts. A 
trifle less surveillance at the prison and a little more 
laxity in our criminal courts, will force you to aban- 
don the prison factory and establish an outside in- 
stitution with help at $2 instead of forty-seven cents 
per day. 

HART — How short of help are we ? 

SMITH — We are twenty men short of full working 
force, and there are over thirty escapes from prison, 
now fugitives. Laxness of the authorities is undis- 
ciplining the men. They'll take 'most any chance, 
because they know the state is making practically 
no effort at recapture. 

HART — Well, we must make an example of a few of 
them. Slip over right away and see the warden. 



12 THE FUGITIVE 

Hang a reward of five hundred on this fellow 's head, 
and the rest '11 be a bit more careful. We must put 
a stop to this shortening of help. Editor Wrant is 
here tonight. He needs financial help. I '11 inspire 
him to an editorial campaign for less delay of law 
and a stricter rule in imposing penalties. Unless 
there is a greater swiftness of justice society will be 
at the mercy of the criminal class. ( Two guests ap- 
pear in rear room removing wraps.) Ah! More 
guests coming. You may avoid the encounter by 
slipping out the side way {indicating left door) . 

SMITH — And Miss Sylvia ? 

HART — You have my word. {Exit Smith.) 

HART {to Miss Cameron, who enters) — Ah, Miss 
Cameron, my daughter has been asking for you. 

CAMERON — Mr. Hart, I want you to meet Mr. 
Meyer. 

HART — I am pleased, Mr. Meyer. Oh, yes, I remem- 
ber seeing you at the American. You '11 excuse me. 
I'll send my daughter to extend her welcome. 
{Exit.) 

MEYER — Is there any grease paint on my nose ? 

CAMERON — No. 

MEYER — Why do I bear so indelibly the stamp of 
the theatre ? 

CAMERON {laughing) — It's your predominating 
personality. 

MEYER — Well, its predomination has failed at en- 
trance to the critic 's mind, the manager 's purse, or 
your heart. 



THE FUGITIVE 13 

CAMERON — You know I love you — but I hesitate. 

MEYER — Till I can play as Wallick does ? Or draw 
as large a salary ? Or hang myself as proof of my 
undying affection? 

CAMERON — None of those. It 's an old shadow, and 
one you should know, before you become too ardent 
in your affection. My close observation of matri- 
mony has not been assuring. My mother, unhappy 
in her marriage, fled with another man, taking her 
baby boy with her and leaving me to my father's 
care. Then, as you already know, I was married 
and I was deserted. 

MEYER — And he took with him your heart ? 

CAMERON — No ; my jewels. Our love dream soon 
proved a nightmare. I was glad to be rid of him, 
but he robbed me and left me penniless to fight my 
own way. 

MEYER — What ties then bind? 

CAMERON — It isn't those that bind, but those ex- 
perience makes me hesitate to trust. I secured my 
divorce from him — (starting) — By all of Shake- 
speare's ghosts, my latest grief I had almost forgot- 
ten. You must help me. I sent for a certified copy 
of that decree and received it last evening at the 
theatre. I stuck the folded envelope in my bodice. 
It is lost. You must find it. 

MEYER — And my reward? 

CAMERON — Consideration. 

MEYER — I bless you for the joy of serving. 



14 THE FUGITIVE 

CAMERON — How grand! Such a home! (survey- 
ing the room.) 

MEYER — Too pretentions. A ten by twelve, a fire- 
place, a Morris chair, a pipe and a bunch of prospec- 
tive comedians kicking polish off the furniture is 
more to my liking. 

CAMERON (embarrassed) — I wonder if Wallick is 
here. 

MEYER — Is he coming ? 

CAMERON — Why, yes. 

MEYER — And you helped plan this party ? 

CAMERON — To the extent of getting Wallick and 
you invited. 

MEYER — Grace, what is that man to you ? 

CAMERON — Very much. I can't understand the 
something that seems to make me care — but I do 
care. 

MEYER — Would that I were dead ! 

CAMERON — Mow magnificent ! 

MEYER — What 1 My death ? 

CAMERON — Oh, dear, no. The appointment of the 
room, the harmony of the colors. Such appropriate 
paper. 

MEYER — More so, I would say, were it striped. 

CAMERON (disgusted) — Such taste ! 

MEYER — Indeed? Well, the wealth with which it 
was papered was made from stripes. 

CAMERON — Harley ! Leave your comedy with your 
grease paint and your wig. Your wit is as artificial 
as your makeup. 



THE FUGITIVE 15 

MEYER — Then will you be serious ? 

CAMERON — Yes. I meant no reflection on your 
acting the lines others have written. There is on 
the stage today no greater fool. 

MEYER — I feel the part. I play Mercutio while my 
rival plays Romeo and reaps the kisses which in real 
life I would corner. 

CAMERON — That foolish jealousy again ? Absurd ! 
(Enter Wallick, unnoticed.) Then here's my wish 
that you rise to play my Romeo. 

MEYER — Many a man on the stage as in real life, 
endowed by nature with faculties for a king, is 
forced, by circumstances, to play the fool. 

WALLICK — I trust you mean no adverse imputa- 
tion. 

CAMERON — Just venting our professional disposi- 
tion — malcontent. 

MEYER — And justly. I 've died so often in my parts 
I'll soon be fit to play but corpse. 

"WALLICK — Well, Harley, there's the Ghost in Ham- 
let left. 

CAMERON (laughing) — Or Mephistopheles in 

MEYER — Wait ! Remember the scriptural admoni- 
tion, Judge not 

WALLICK — Well, if you would wear the white wings 
of scriptural promise, you must stifle your everlast- 
ing pessimism. 

MEYER — Don't preach, till you have ceased that 
playful kleptomania that lets you steal, in the guise 



16 THE FUGITIVE 

of sport, one 's very clothes. We are late guests to- 
day because of my missing cuff button. I warrant 
you took it. 

WALLICK — Why, so I did, with my left hand while 
I was shaking your right. A pretty thing (pro- 
ducing the button from his vest pocket) . 

MEYER — The button — yes. If your profession as 
actor ever gives out nature has endowed you for an- 
other. 

WALLICK — That reminds me, Grace ; last night in 
the balcony scene I deftly stole an envelope from 
your bodice, to see if you would detect me. Permit 
me — (returning it). 

MEYER — My knighthood's mission at an end. 
There 's an airship for every opportunity I seek. 

CAMERON (to Wallick) —You are, indeed, well suit- 
ed for your new part. 

WALLICK — You know the next bill ? 

CAMERON — It 's Marchant 's new play. 

WALLICK — And begins ? 

CAMERON — Next week. 

MEYER — I 'm glad this long Shakesperian run is at 
an end. 

WALLICK — Campbell has indeed favored you with 
first information of our next piece. 

CAMERON — Only that I might be a convenient mes- 
senger to you. He would have you go to prison to- 
morrow. 

WALLICK — Prison? 



THE FUGITIVE 17 

CAMERON — For your local color. 

(Smith enters quietly. Cameron's back is toward him. 
He slips behind bay-window curtains unnoticed.) 

WALLICK — Ye gods ! Now what ? 

(Sylvia enters from the arch just in time to hear 
Cameron's words.) 

CAMERON — You are < < The Fugitive. ' ' 

SYLVIA (after greeting all; to Cameron) — So good 
of you to bring your Romeo to me. You come op- 
portunely. They're playing a dream waltz. If 
Mercutio can dance as deftly as he recites Queen 
Mab, you should not miss the pleasure. 

CAMERON — I will demand the proof. 

MEYER (bowing) — I thank you both. 

(Exit right Cameron and Meyer.) 

(Wallick would embrace Sylvia. She holds him at a 
distance with a warning hand.) 

SYLVIA — Just let me look at you. (He is embar- 
rassed.) You do not bear, as unabashed, admira- 
tion off as on the stage. Do you realize this is the 
first time I have ever seen you in modern clothes ? 

WALLICK — I tremble for the comparison. 

SYLVIA — Why should you, when I have loved you 
through generations of men — the hateful Richard, 
the treacherous Iago, the unrelenting Shylock, the 
homely Cyrano. When all your words of love have 
been whispered through the lips of painted charac- 
ters, why should I not with joy anticipate and pro- 
long the greeting of the man ? 



18 THE FUGITIVE 

WALLICK (embracing her) — Sylvia, I love you. 

SYLVIA — How good it seems to wrest you for one 
brief respite from that world of mimicry, where, 
through the goodness of Grace, I met and learned 
to love you. But all our meetings have been so clan- 
destine. Now I have you in my own world, under 
all approved formalities. 

WALLICK — I am such a stranger in this world. I 
have so long played the lives of others I know not 
how to gracefully act myself. 

SYLVIA — Then play you are my Borneo. 

WALLICK — I fear you love the actor, not the man. 
You have been charmed by the tinsel's glow, the 
lights' glamour, the playwright's poetry, and the 
critic's praise. The unveiling of the real man's 
shortcomings will crush your romance. 

SYLVIA — You are grander to me tonight. 

WALLICK — Were I not famous ? < 

SYLVIA — It would make no difference. 

WALLICK — And I owned an unknown name ? 

SYLVIA — I would gladly share it. (He kisses her.) 
But we must remain no longer from the guests. 

WALLICK — Then, (giving her his hand) Beauty, 
lead forth your beast. 

(Exit Sylvia and Wallick.) 

SMITH (appearing from window curtains) — So? 
That's the why? Art, and friendship for the act- 
ress were not the theatre's chief attraction. It is 
this star of the play world that has led her into 



THE FUGITIVE 19 

dreams of romance, that make my offers seem lowly 
and worthless in her eyes. They are waltzing to- 
gether. How trustingly she looks into his eyes. 
Oh, smile — you stagey good-for-naught. You may 
be the idol now, but I '11 shatter you at her very feet ! 
Ill 

HART (who enters from ball-room) — Come, Smith, 
you must join the dancers. You already have lost 
too much of the happy occasion. 

SMITH — I prefer a word with you. 

HART — I 'in that good-natured I '11 grant you any- 
thing. 

SMITH — Who is that dancing with Miss Sylvia ? 

HART — Why, really, I do not know. 

SMITH — It is Richard Wallick, the actor. 

HART — Upon my word ! I didn 't know he was 
among the guests. 

SMITH — And there is more you didn 't know. 

HART — What do you mean ? 

SMITH — That he is her lover. 

HART — You lie! 

SMITH — With my own eyes, not ten minutes since, 
here in this very room, I saw him fold her in his 
arms and press passionate kisses on her lips. 

HART — Smith, so help me God if you deceive me — 

SMITH — I speak the truth. 

HART (presses bell button) — We'll know the truth! 
(To Tompkins who appears:) Send my daughter to 
me. (Exit servant.) 



20 THE FUGITIVE 

SMITH — If she confess her love ? 

HART — For a common play actor ? 

SMITH — There have been such unfortunate fascina- 
tions. 

HART — Then God help me. 

SMITH — You said you would clear the way for me. 

HART — But if her heart is given — her life 's hap- 
piness at stake ! 

SMITH — You would desert me — break your word ? 

HART — What obstacle can I offer ? What objection 
justly make, based upon the question of honor ? 

SMITH — He is a fugitive. 

HART — How do you know that ¥ 

SMITH — I heard a woman accuse him here, not long 
since, and he did not deny. Would you have your 
daughter marry him, who might have to serve as con- 
vict in your own factory ? 

HART — Who Was this woman who accused him ? 

SMITH — I did not see her face, and Sylvia's arrival 
broke off their quarrel. 

HART — And this actor has dared make love to her ? 

SMITH — Has won in his suit to the point of her con- 
fessing love. 

HART — Dare you call him fugitive ? 

SMITH — To his very face. 

HART — Tompkins has reached them. They turn 
this way. He comes with her. The presumptious 
cur! I'll teach the aspiring felon. 

SMITH (nervously) — Who is that woman to whom 
she speaks now ? 



THE FUGITIVE 21 

HART — That is the actress Grace Cameron. She 
and her escort are coming too. 

SMITH (nervously) — On more sober thought, per- 
haps my presence here might prejudice me in Syl- 
via's eyes. Even though the mask be torn from this 
rogue's face she might hesitate to give her heart 
to him who shattered her illusions. I have spoken 
the truth, but better than be the executioner of her 
hopes in disclosing it, should I be the staff to which 
she will naturally turn for consoling support. 

HART — You reason well. Retire, but be close at 
hand should I need you. 

(Smith, his face disclosing great relief, hastily exits 
rear. Hart stands nervously awaiting the laughing 
group that entesr from the dance hall.) 

CAMERON — We are the advance guard of the even- 
ing 's princess who in answer to your summons comes 
into your presence. 

MEYER — And she has made every subject in her 
realm a slave to her delightful charms. 

SYLVIA — Father, you sent for me ? 

HART (coldly) —Yes. 

SYLVIA — I 've brought with me a friend, I so want 
you to meet. So often you've admired him on the 
stage. Mr. Richard Wallick. 

HART — Yes, I have admired him — on the stage. I 
sent for my daughter, but as the matter concerns 
you Mr. Wallick, it perhaps is not amiss you also 
came (looking at Grace and Meyer inquiringly.) 



22 THE FUGITIVE 

WALLICK — These are my friends. What 'ere con- 
cerns me need be no secret from them. 

HART — This is your first visit to my home, I believe ? 

WALLICK — It is, indeed. 

HART — Let it be your last. 

SYLVIA — Father — 

HART (to Sylvia) — And let me hear no more of these 
rendezvous behind the theatre scenes. 

SYLVIA — It was the merest chance father, when I 
visited Grace. 

WALLICK — My motives, sir, are the purest — 

HART — Pure? To link the name of an honorable 
girl with a scandalous stage gossip, to be mongered 
through the city. 

SYLVIA — Father, I love him (throwing her arms 
about her father's neck and burying her head on his 
shoulder.) 

WALLICK — My intentions, sir, are most honorable. 

HART — Honorable ? To entice an innocent girl from 
under the protection of her only parent, behind 
theatre scenes where there is a false glamor of life 
and there instill in her unsuspecting heart false 
dreams of romance? 

WALLICK — My name and honor, sir, would not 
sully any woman. Sylvia — 

HART (stretching out his arm to bar the actor from 
his daughter whom he pushes gently away with the 
other) — What name ? 

WALLICK — Richard Wallick. 



THE FUGITIVE 23 

HART — A false one. ( All start. ) 

SYLVIA — Father — 

HART — What honor ? 

WALLICK — The honor of a — 

HART — Fugitive. 

SYLVIA (gasps) — Fugitive (sinks into chair with 

hands to her eyes. Grace kneels at her side to com- 
fort her.) 
WALLICK — You — (Meyer steps between Wallick 

and Hart, taking the actor's hand in his own.) 
MEYER — Mr. Hart. There is some terrible mistake 

here, some misunderstanding. Surely you have been 

misinformed. 
HART (to Wallick) —What do you say, sir? 
WALLICK — It is absurd. 
HART — Do you deny you are living under a false 

name and under a charge of crime ? 
WALLICK (hesitatingly) — Sir — I — 
HART — Wait. (Rings bell.) Before you answer 

Tompkins can bring either the proof or your wraps. 

Which? (All intent. Tompkins enters door right 

rear. ) 
WALLICK — No gentleman will quarrel with the 

father of the woman he loves. 
HART — Tompkins, bring his wraps. 
SYLVIA (moaning) — Oh-o-o. 
HART — Miss Cameron, will you assist Miss Sylvia 

quietly to her room? (Cameron nods sadly and 

Hart exists right.) 



24 THE FUGITIVE 

MEYER (shaking Wallick's hand) — I believe in you 
old man, but you should have cast the lie in his teeth. 

WALLICK (to Meyer) — And gained her disfavor. 
Order my machine, will you, please? 

MEYER — Certainly. 

(Exits right rear. Cameron helps Sylvia, who is weep- 
ing, to her feet and they cross to front left door be- 
fore Wallick, to whom Tompkins gives his wraps. 
When they have passed Cameron stops momentarily 
and turning back to Wallick speaks.) 

CAMERON — 1 11 explain. 

(Exit Cameron and Sylvia left. Exit Tompkins right.) 

WALLICK (alone)— Pool, fool that I was. The world 
IS a stage, but the ablest actor cannot fake a part in 
the cast to which he is a stranger. 

CURTAIN 



ACT II 

The apartment of Richard Wallick at 12:30 Tuesday 
morning presents an air of expectancy. The room 
is lighted only by the silver moonbeams that scintil- 
late through the large glass doors of an alcove win- 
dow at the rear, overlooking the street below. An 
open door at the rear and left discloses a bed cham- 
ber of restful blue awaiting the mentally and phy- 
sically tired owner. Close to the entrance door on 
the right an empty hall tree stretches out its arms as 
waiting the coat to be carelessly thrown to its pro- 
tection and across the room in readiness the smoking 
jacket is laid over the Morris chair, pushed close to 
the open fireplace, with slippers close by. Before the 
large mirror over the mantel invitingly reposes the 
pipe and tobacco bowl, which finds a contreclaimant 
for the owner's attention in the caraffe of ivine on 
the table in the center of the room. James is discov- 
ered kneeling on the hearth, poking the ashes in the 
grate. 

JAMES — Bad luck to these useless playthings. That 
fire will not last till he returns, and the fuel is down 
three flights of stairs. (Stirs coals again and shakes 
his head dubiously.) If he can't have a bright fire 



26 THE FUGITIVE 

to sit by for a half hour, sure he'll be ill tempered 
for a week. I don't believe it will last. I am sure 
it will not. Three flights of stairs (yawns.) Well 
it's no use. I '11 have to get the fuel. (Exit.) 

(The figure of a man glides down a rope outside the 
window. He opens it and enters. He is roughly 
dressed, his hair real gray, a man of about 60 years. 
An intelligent face hardened by adversity. There 
being little light in the room he operates an electric 
flashlight, and examines the place, opening drawers 
of sideboard, table, examines mantel. and is near the 
door at the left when a door is heard to slam and he 
slips cautiously into adjoining room.) 

WALLICK ( entering r) — James ! ( Shrugs shoulders 
and shuts window.) James ! ! (Removes outer wraps 
and presses electric button.) Where the devil — 
(James enters loaded down with fuel.) Ah. There 
you are. It's cold as a storage here. 

JAMES (looking at clock) — I did not expect you, sir, 
for a half hour. 

WALLICK — True. I did not eat tonight. 

JAMES (replenishing fire) — Shall I fetch you some- 
thing here, sir. 

WALLICK — Yes. (Bell rings. ) See who is at the 
door first. I 'm not at home. 

JAMES — Yes sir. (Exit. ) 

( Wallick seats himself in Morris chair, fills his pipe and 
proceeds to make himself comfortable.) 

JAMES (returning) — It's a lady sir. 



THE FUGITIVE 27 

WALLICK — At this time of night ? Send her away. 

JAMES — I tried to, sir, but she wouldn't go. Said 
she was a friend of yours. 

WALLICK — How is she dressed ? 

JAMES — She has a long brown wooly coat, sir, with 
a sort o' hood that comes up over her head. 

"WALLICK — Let her in. Then go for my lunch. 
Make it for two please. 

JAMES — Yes, sir. (Exit ) 

WALLICK (to himself) — rlt's Cameron. Why on 
earth did she come this time of night? To discuss 
my humiliation I suppose. Discussing misfortune is 
a woman's conception of consolation. Man's is si- 
lence. To avoid this I was late tonight at the theatre 
and for the same reason quitted it with grease paint 
still sticking to my skin. (Resignedly.) Ah, well. 
(Woman enters dressed as described and advances 
to center. Without looking up Wallick says) Well, 
Grace, I suppose you bring me Sylvia's farewell. 

SYLVIA (the woman) — Richard. 

WALLICK (recognizing voice) — Good God. Sylvia. 
Here, this time of night, alone. You must go away. 
Someone might come and — 

SYLVIA — Not until you forgive me. 

WALLICK — You ? Why, you have not wronged me. 

SYLVIA — Ah, but I have, for when you refused to 
deny my father's charges I did mistrust. I had 
known so little of your real life. Then, yesterday 
I heard Grace say, ' ' You are the fugitive. ' ' I must 



28 THE FUGITIVE 

honestly confess my weakness of faith for nothing 
else will excuse the shameful manner in which I let 
you leave the home to which I had urged your com- 
ing. Grace told me of your part in the next produc- 
tion at the theatre. I realized your nobleness in re- 
fusing a quarrel with my father and the shame for 
my own weakness would not give me peace. Grace, 
believing she was giving comfort in yielding to a 
childish whim, left her coat with me. It was the dis- 
guise I wanted to escape from home. Your forgive- 
ness meant more to me than all conventionalities of 
the world. Never again will my love falter. 

WALLICK (embracing her) — Dear Sylvia. And if 
all your father said were true ? 

SYLVIA — I would love you just the same. Ah, I 
know you doubt me now. This afternoon I didn't 
know what it meant to give you up. I do now and 
henceforth my love shall be steadfast. 

WALLICK — God help you, little girl. It is true. 
(She gives a little cry and her head sinks on his 
shoulder.) But it is not as bad as it sounds. You 
should know who and what I am. Will you sit here. 
(She sits in Morris chair and he sits on the hearth at 
her feet.) I was raised until I was 12 years old in a 
little town not more than 300 miles from here, mostly 
by my mother who was a dear soul. As I look back 
now my heart aches for her. I saw little of my fath- 
er. He seldom came home. When he did it was 
for but a few days. He was a railroad construction 



THE FUGITIVE 29 

engineer, I believe that is what mother said. Many 
a lonely day she spent, especially during the last few 
years I was home when in childish thoughtlessness I 
gave more attention to my playfellows and games 
than to her. But each night when I went home and 
put my arms about her neck, all the clouds seemed 
to pass from her face. Gently she would pat me on 
the head and smilingly say: "Ah, some day my 
little man will make his mother proud of her son. ' ' 
Then how my little heart ached because of the poor 
clothes she wore. Her skirt was patched and her 
shoes were badly broken out at the sole. One day 
mother received a letter. She said it was from 
father. There was no money in it as usual, and she 
cried long into the night. I can hear in my imagin- 
ation her sobs even today. I thought it was because 
of the shoes she needed and could not have. Next 
night my temptation came. It was after supper and 
I was playing with three little comrades, who always 
had been rather rough. We had been reading stories 
of wild desperadoes and it was finally proposed that 
we rob the town store. I was reluctant. I knew it 
was wrong. I thought of the shoes my mother need- 
ed and when one of the lads proposed I only stand 
outside and keep watch, I yielded. Well I remem- 
ber the awfulness of that suspense. They had just 
come out with the plunder and handed me the shoes 
when an alarm was given. We scattered and I ran 
for dear life, just as far from home as my legs would 



30 , THE FUGITIVE 

carry me, out into the timber that skirted the town. 
I was afraid to go back home. Every little noise 
startled me. Oh, the awfulness of that night in the 
woods. Morning dawned and yet I hesitated. Then 
I looked at the shoes, wondering, after all, if I had the 
right size. There was an imprint on the inside. I 
read it with horror. It said "Prison Made No. 
1878. ' ' They seemed like an omen of welcome from 
the prison that would hold me for punishment. The 
figures burned into my soul for they represented 
the year I was born. I was more frightened than 
ever. I waited until night. Then I fled from the 
community, throwing the shoes in the road as far as 
I could toward the town. Haunted by fear I changed 
my name and worked at one thing and another until I 
ran into a position as stage hand at the American. 
I cultivated a taste for the stage. I showed aptness 
as a super. I was given minor parts and gradually 
worked up to what you have known me to be. 

SYLVIA — And your mother f 

WALLICK — My mother? Ah, she was the first one 
of whom I thought when I won fame. I had suc- 
ceeded and ' ' might make her proud. ' ' At my first 
opportunity I quietly left the city and hurried back 
to that little village to lay at her feet the laurels she 
had so often prophesied for me. My only greeting 
was a grave in the potter 's field. Mother was dead. 
The old home was deserted and tumbling in decay. 
Buried with her was the secret of the letter that had 



THE FUGITIVE 31 

caused her sadness. My father? Had he died or 
merely met reverses? Fate had completely wiped 
him from my life. Over my mother's grave I put a 
monument of white marble, poor recompense for the 
misery I had cost her. I looked through the crim- 
inal records. I had been indicted with the rest. 
The boys arrested had been reprimanded and set 
free as guilty of only a boyish prank. The record 
still stood against me. That is why I could not deny 
your father 's charge. I seemed condemned without 
a hearing in your eyes and so I bowed to fate. But 
now you know the man with his fault, is your love 
still firm? 

SYLVIA — More than ever. That against such odds 
you should ascend to your present heights is proof 
of your character. 

WALLICK — And today I am going to your father 
and tell him all. He must understand and yield you 
to me. 

SYLVIA — That would never do. He would not con- 
sent. You must not try to see him. 

WALLICK — What will he urge against me ? 

SYLVIA — It isn 't his judgment but his will that rules 
him now. He would have me marry Mr. Smith, 
manager of his factory. He has forbidden me to 
even see you. But Richard, I love you. I guess I 
have outgrown the age of women, who in story books, 
stifle their love and die in grief. Woman is surely 
a purpose of God and not a tool of man. And if her 



32 THE FUGITIVE 

purpose, as I believe, be to build homes, upon which 
rests our government and our civilization, then 
should she found that home upon her love. If the 
voice of her heart is silenced, woe unto our race. 
When conventionalities of society are cast down and 
love alone shall build our homes, then will prison 
walls crumble, breweries fall into decay, war's clamor 
will vanish when woman has her say. My father's 
mind has been poisoned by Mr. Smith, in whom he 
has great confidence. He would marry me. My 
only escape from their united force is open revolt in 
my father's home. I cannot give you up. I shall 
declare my emancipation and am here to plan a way. 

WALLICK — A way V Where can it be ? 

SYLVIA — I have given you my love, Richard. My 
father's sanction I will forego. 

WALLICK — You mean you will elope? 

SYLVIA — If that be the only way. 

WALLICK — But — 

SYLVIA (laughing) — Am I not worth the stealing? 

WALLICK — Sylvia. (He embraces her. Door bell 
buzzes vehemently.) Someone is ringing. James 
wouldn't ring. Hush! (A door slams.) The im- 
pudent is coming in. Quickly. Into this room. 
(Exit Sylvia into room where burglar is also hiding.) 

WALLICK (in act of lighting cigarette to Meyer who 
enters wildly at right)— Hello, night prowler. 

MEYER — Where the devil — 

WALLICK — Have a cigarette ? 



THE FUGITIVE 33 

MEYER — Thanks {taking the silver case) I thought 
I would find it here. When did you steal it? 

WALLICK — Just after you delivered "Queen Mab" 
It stuck temptingly from your girt. Was you afraid 
to wait for it till morning? 

MEYER — Not if I had been sure you had it, but you 
know you aren 't the only thief about the theatre, and 
the others haven't your pleasant faculty of return- 
ing the plunder. 

WALLICK — Well, I hadn't noticed its intrinsic value 
of such great importance. 

MEYER — No. But it is Grace's first and only gift 
to me. 

WALLICK — So ? When did it happen ? 

MEYER — Only yesterday. 

WALLICK — I suppose, following your complaint of 
frequent dying, she thought it time you should begin 
to smoke. 

MEYER — Fortunate you didn't aspire to comedy, 
Wallick. You would have starved on such wit. Bless 
her heart. And I haven't even thanked her for it 
yet. I waited too. She must have hurried from 
the theatre. You didn't see her did youl 

WALLICK — Why, no. I hurried away as fast as I 
could. That party put me out and I wanted soli- 
tude. 

MEYER (overlooking the significance of Wallick 's last 
word) — What did Sylvia say to Grace after we left ? 

WALLICK — I haven 't spoken to Grace since, except 
in our scenes. 



34 THE FUGITIVE 

MEYER — Richard, I have always suspicioned you 
cared a lot for Grace. 

WALLICK — Yes, I do. 

MEYER — I know, but I mean in a way that might 
rival my attentions. To tell the truth I 've been 
genuinely jealous of you. But today after the open 
avowal of love between you and Sylvia I take it you 
do not seek Grace in marriage. Am I right ? 

WALLICK — Your deductions are marvelously cor- 
rect. 

MEYER — Thanks. That relieves my mind a lot. 
I'll not be jealous any more, if you are sure your 
friendship is only platonic. 

WALLICK — Only platonic. 

MEYER — Well, I'll say good-bye old man. Thanks 
for my cigarette case. 

WALLACK — You're welcome. 

MEYER — Good night. 

WALLICK — Good morning. 

MEYER (turning to go he sees Grace's coat on the 
hall tree, and whirling angrily around snarls) — 
Richard, you lie. 

WALLICK (laughing) — Harley, you're a fool. 

MEYER — Oh. Am I ? Well not so big as you might 
think. Grace is here in your rooms now. 

WALLICK — You're an ass. 

MEYER — Do you deny it? 

WALLICK — Most emphatically. 

MEYER — Then how comes her coat here ? 



THE FUGITIVE 35 

WALLICK (thrown off guard) — Why — 
MEYER — You don't answer. Nothing to say. Well 
I'll take the trouble to answer myself. (Starts to 
enter room where Sylvia is hidden. Wallick steps 
in doorway.) 

WALLICK — You can't go in there. 

MEYER — Then you admit the woman is there ? 

WALLICK — I admit nothing. 

MEYER — Then I'll confront her with her perfidy. 
Stand aside, or I'll force my way. 

WALLICK — One minute. Suppose instead of force 
you use common sense. There 's the telephone. You 
know her number. See if she be home before you 
rush in where you might find encounter more pain- 
fully realistic than in your stage scenes. 

MEYER (at telephone) — Central? Red 196. Hello. 
That you Grace? Say do you know where your 
brown coat is? (pause.) I say do you know where 
your brown coat is — the one I gave you with the 
admonition to let no other shoulder wear it ? Sent 
it to the cleaners? By whom? Richard. Never 
mind, I '11 explain some other time. Good night dear. 
(Hangs up phone receiver.) Richard I am a fool. 

WALLICK — Fortunate you didn't aspire to serious 
roles. The tears you would have brought would 
have been those of laughter. 

MEYER — Rub it in. I deserve it. Forgive me old 
chap. 



36 THE FUGITIVE 

WALLI CK ( laughing ) — Good bye. 

(As Meyer starts to go he is confronted by James who 
enters with tray covered by napkin. Meyer stops, 
putting on his gloves, while James removes cover.) 

JAMES — Anything else sir ? 

WALLICK — Await my call. (Exit James.) 

MEYER — Supper for two. I say, Richard, what 
have you in that room you're so particular about? 

WALLICK — A burglar, impudence. Get out. 

MEYER ( laughing ) — Good night. ( Exit. ) 

WALLICK — Sylvia! (drawing back Gurtain of door 
to room where she was hiding, permitting her to 
enter.) 

SYLVIA — Richard, I was so frightened. 

WALLICK — A little hot coffee and a bite to eat will 
restore your nerves. 

SYLVIA — But I must not. I might even now be 
missed, though I bribed my maid. I must go. 

WALLICK — But how? 

SYLVIA — I came in a carriage. It is waiting. Good- 
bye. 

WALLICK — Till when » 

SYLVIA — When 'ere you will. 

WALLICK — Then today before the sun is up. 

SYLVIA — I '11 be waiting in the rose garden at 4 a. m. 
It is leafless and flower less now, but you'll know it 
by the little garden house in which I'll be waiting. 
If you want me — 

WALLICK — Want you ? For such a flower I would 



THE FUGITIVE 37 

fight my way against the thorns of winter manteled 
bushes to the center of a wilderness of shrubbery. 

SYLVIA — Now you are my Romeo. (He embraces 
and kisses her. Door is heard to slam.) I must 
hurry. (He helps her into her coat. James enters.) 

WALLICK (to James) — Escort this lady to her car- 
riage. And order one for me at 3:30. Then you 
may retire. 

JAMES — Yes, sir. (Exit.) 

SYLVIA (pausing at door) — Aufwiedersehn. 

WALLICK — God speed the minutes. (Exit Sylvia.) 

WALLICK (alone) — Sylvia, mine. Here life begins 
in earnest. True love is a rock on which to build 
one's character. What is fame? A mere flame to 
be flickered out by some trifling breeze of public 
whim. But to live and fight for a trusting heart, 
one that beats in sympathy with yours; to build a 
home where love shall rule and bequeath to posterity 
an honorable progeny; to be a part of God's great 
plan. That is life. Richard (crossing to mantel 
mirror and addressing self) Your world of make be- 
lieve has a rival in the life that really is. Before 
the pillar of love how insignificantly crumble one's 
former idols, glory, money. Money ? How persist - 
ly the ' ' Root of evil ' ' impresses its necessity even in 
the accomplishment of that which is good. One 
cannot even take a wife at 4 a. m. without its assist- 
ance. How am I prepared? 

(As he takes his wallet from his pocket and with arm 



38 THE FUGITIVE 

leaning on mantel counts his bills, the burglar en- 
ters and cautiously approaches him with upraised 
club.) 

WALLICK — Ten, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty — and 

mother's picture. {Burglar just ready to strike 
stands as petrified. Wallick raising eyes and seeing 
burglar in the glass cries) "Wait (swings himself 
away from robber with back to wall.) What do you 
want? 

BURGLAR — Nothing. 

WALLICK — Well I'm compelled to admit you have 
a boisterous way of extracting it. Where did you 
come from? 

BURGLAR — There (pointing to left door.) 

WALLICK — In there? (Burglar nods). And the 
girl ? 

BURGLAR — She had the room. I was in the closet. 

WALLICK — Why are you here? 

BURGLAR — I need money. 

WALLICK — Then why not — (Wallick completes his 
meaning by a display of his money and a helpless 
shrug of the shoulders.) 

BURGLAR — I changed my mind. 

WALLICK — But, why ? 

BURGLAR — There 's a seed of goodness in the Worst 
as well as badness in the best that needs but condi- 
tion to develop. 

WALLICK — I don't perceive the application of your 
philosophy. 



THE FUGITIVE 39 

BURGLAR — I was never more vicious in my life 
than tonight. Hunted down like a dog, needing 
money to purchase freedom, I had my arm trained to 
kill, but when I saw the face of that woman — (catch- 
ing himself.) 

WALLICK — Oh, yes. The girl who was your fel- 
low prisoner there. 

BURGLAR (seizing the opportunity) — Yes, that's it. 
I lost my nerve, that's all. Goodbye (starts for 
window. ) 

WALLICK — Wait (indicating supper.) Sit down. 

BURGLAR — Here ? Supper? With you? You want 
to detain me — 

WALLICK — You misjudge me. I merely wish to 
talk to you. I am an actor. (Burglar hesitates.) 
Have you conscientious scruples against eating with 
an actor? 

BURGLAR — No, but — 

WALLICK — But actors are not noted for generosity, 
you would say ? Well I '11 be generous at the risk of 
being a bad actor. (They sit down.) You see I 
may have to know something of your life some time 
in order to play the part. (Starts to pour tea and 
suddenly laughs.) Strange coincidence. One may 
even speak the truth unconsciously. I meant to lie 
when I told Harl this supper was for a burglar. 
(Passing bread and salad to burglar.) Tell me, 
have you ever been in prison ? 

BURGLAR — Well, yes. 



40 THE FUGITIVE 

WALLICK — Can you tell me in a few words what 
prison life is ? 

BURGLAR — I can tell in one. 

WALLICK — Well? 

BURGLAR — Hell. 

WALLICK — How compendious. 

BURGLAR — What 's that ? 

WALLICK — That 's brief, short, terse, compact. 

BURGLAR — Condensed, concentrated, concise, com- 
prehensive — I know the word. It's the covered 
dish of which I inquire. 

WALLICK — I beg your pardon. Potatoes au gratin. 
Help yourself. I see you are highly educated. 

BURGLAR — Yes, and lowly. 

WALLICK — Then why are you a common burglar ? 

BURGLAR — Because in the art and methods of steal- 
ing there is such extensive competition some of us 
need be common. But few are crowned financial 
barons. 

WALLICK — But why be dishonest at all. 

BURGLAR — Because honest men today have formed 
a trust and crush all opposition. 

WALLICK — I don't understand. 

BURGLAR — You were never in prison ? 

WALLICK — No. ( Startled. ) Thank God. 

BURGLAR — That makes man understand. A year, 
perhaps ten. You pay the penalty. Then you're 
given freedom (sneeringly) with a suit of clothes 
and enough to but a day's rations. How can you 



THE FUGITIVE 41 

live ? Work ? Everyone would know from whence 
you came. Prison! You are driven away like a 
plague. They deny you the right to live honestly. 
That's their religion. 

WALLICK {fascinated)— Then what? 

BURGLAR — Back to the organization. 

WALLICK — The organization ? 

BURGLAR — Yes. That's another trust. That's 
the dishonest man's trust. But they have greater 
faith in humanity than the honest trust. They 
have confidence in you. They loan you money, furn- 
ish you tools, assign you work and in case of adver- 
sity they stand by you. They furnish a lawyer. 
And they only ask a fourth of your income. Now 
there is some religion. They give a man a chance. 

WALLICK — It is hardly religious to profit on others 
misfortune. 

BURGLAR — Then there is no such thing as religion. 
No man gains, but at another's loss. Our natural 
history teaches nothing is created. It is only trans- 
formed. 

WALLICK — But who gains by your imprisonment ? 

BURGLAR — In our prison there is a shoe factory. 
I worked there like a dog from seven in the morn- 
ing till six at night. My compensation ? A four by 
eight stone cell in which to sleep and thin bean soup 
and bread. The more prisoners there are the more 
money for the state. The state received so much 
from prison labor last year it had to make no tax 



42 THE FUGITIVE 

levy on the people. The people elect the judges 
who pronounce sentence on those who fill the prison 
factory. The more prisoners the lower the tax on 
the people. Is the man slaving in the prison shoe 
shop unfortunate ? Then who profits by him being 
there, while his own wife and children on the out- 
side may be starving. Is society then a religious 
organization ? 

WALLICK — But there was a cause for your being 
there. 

BURGLAR — Yes. I collected from the rich shoe 
manufacturer some of the unpaid wares I had 
earned. 

WALLICK — Oh. Then you had been in prison even 
before that ? 

BURGLAR — Yes. Several times. 

WALLICK — When were you given your liberty. 

BURGLAR — I am the recipient of no such philan- 
thropy from the state. All it has given me is a 
branded name. My liberty, I took. 

WALLACK — Then you are a fugitive? 

BURGLAR — In the humblest meaning of the word. 
Another cup of coffee would greatly alleviate my 
affliction. 

WALLICK — Certainly. (Pouring coffee.) Your 
apparent good education coupled with a thinking 
mind arouse my curiosity. Would you mind telling 
me What first sent you to prison ? 

BURGLAR — The judge called it embezzlement. I 



THE FUGITIVE 43 

was working in a store at fifteen dollars per week 
and it was hard enough with that to keep my wife 
and baby decently. Then one day a box fell on my 
hand and crushed the fingers. The doctor did twenty- 
five dollars worth of patching. I worked hard hop- 
ing for a raise so I could pay the doctor. The raise 
was slow and he became impatient. He threatened 
a lawsuit and to tell my proprietor I squandered my 
earnings. That would mean the loss of my position. 
That would never do. So I just borrowed five dol- 
lars a week from the cash to pay the doctor. He 
was satisfied and didn't ask from where the money 
came. I meant to replace it as soon as my raise 
came. The boss found it out, and as a consequence 
I was asked to pay society the penalty of having 
loved my family too well. When I was finally re- 
leased from prison, no one wanted me. Society 
denied me a right to live, so I helped myself. 

WALLICK — Then that was your first crime ? 

BURGLAR — I didn't say that. There are some 
crimes to which the law pays no attention. 

WALLICK — In your judgment, what was your first 
crime? 

BURGLAR — When I stole a pure innocent woman 
from an honorable home. 

WALLICK — Stole ? You say. 

BURGLAR — Certainly. Whatever cannot be done 
openly is dishonest. 

WALLICK — You would preach? 



44 THE FUGITIVE 

BURGLAR — No. But I know the right classifica- 
tion of things in my business, and I wouldn't ad- 
vise anyone to start in it. It is so easy to get into, 
but there are no doors that open out. 

WALLICK — You heard me plan to elope with this 
young woman, didn't you? 

BURGLAR — Yes. Don 't do it. 

WALLICK — I can hardly concede your classification 
of an elopement as a theft. What is lost? 

BURGLAR — The father loses his daughter's love. 
The daughter loses her father 's confidence and per- 
haps her inheritance. 

WALLICK — And I would lose ? 

BURGLAR — Your self respect. 

WALLICK — Who the devil are you? 

BURGLAR — We don't have names in prison. Just 
numbers. 

WALLICK — Well? 

BURGLAR — I am best known in my half of the 
world as number 1878. 

WALLICK — My God (recognising the number he 
saw printed on the shoe.) 

BURGLAR — What 's the matter ? Are you ill ? 

WALLICK — No. The truth of your words just 
struck home. Here take this (handing him his 
purse) and try to start right. (As burglar starts 
to go.) Wait. (Presses electric bell button) I want 
a picture in there. (Burglar removes picture and 
after looking at it hands it with trembling hand to 



THE FUGITIVE 45 

Wallick. ) It 's the only picture of my mother. You 
tremble. You need not fear. I rang only for my 
servant. (Burglar starts for the window.) Wait 
you shall go out the front door. 

BURGLAR — Why? 

WALLICK — That we may both retain our self re- 
spect. (James enters in dressing gown and slip- 
pers, with towseled hair, rubbing his eyes.) James. 
Let this gentleman out the front door. 

JAMES — Yes, sir. 

WALLICK — And, James. You may dismiss the car- 
riage I ordered. 

CURTAIN 



ACT III 

{The furnishings of Warden Landers' s office are quite 
in keeping with the cold stone prison walls. The only 
unbarred and unlocked door is the entrance from 
without at the right. Directly across is a heavily 
barred door leading to the prison, while a large 
barred window at the rear overlooks the prison yard 
and close to it is a barred door leading to the same. 
Aside from a few solid chairs, and the big calendar 
showing it is Tuesday and the clock indicating 10 a. 
m., the only furniture in the room is a flat desk in 
the center on which is a large record book and a tele- 
phone. Behind this Edwards, the warden's assist- 
ant, is discovered seated and opening mail. A mes- 
senger boy enters, delivers a telegram and exits. Ed- 
wards opens the message, affects surprise and smiles. 
There is a rattling of locks, the door at the left opens 
and Warden Landers enters.) 

LANDERS — Well, Edwards, any news? 

EDWARDS — This 1878 — 

LANDERS — Who escaped Monday, what of him ? 

EDWARDS {showing telegram) — Caught. Be here 
in a few minutes. 

LANDERS — Good. Give him three days solitary 
confinement. That ought to discipline him some. 



THE FUGITIVE 47 

EDWARDS — Hart is complaining of the scarcity of 
workers in the factory. Manager Smith has tele- 
phoned asking a conference with you this morning, 
to arrange for extending the hours of work. Sim- 
mons is one of the best workmen in the factory. 

LANDERS — Put him back to work and give him a 
bread and water diet three days. When are these 
actor folks coming to look over the place? 

EDWARDS — One of them — the man — is in the fac- 
tory now. The actress, I understand, is coming at 
10 o'clock with Miss Sylvia Hart. 

LANDERS — We've got to tighten up on the rules 
about visitors. This new fever "sociology" has 
made so many soft hearted folks light headed that 
there is quite a general delirium that loudly cries 
out for operation of prisons on Sunday school plans. 
The more reformers kept out the fewer fault finders 
against us. A few more parole boards, anti-capital 
punishment laws, and lax courts and we'll have to 
convert the prisons into fortresses as safe abiding 
places for the few remaining honest. Why defiance 
of law is even innoculating the agents of justice. I 
caught Willets, one of our oldest guards, slipping 
opium into the cell of 49 last night. I am going now 
to discharge him. I would like to know the source 
of this opium supply. Call me when Smith comes. 

EDWARDS — Very well, sir. (Exit Landers.) Will 
that fool Willetts peach? 

SMITH (entering right)— Well, Edwards? 



48 THE FUGITIVE 

EDWARDS — Oh. It's you? Just in time. Wil- 
letts, the bungling fool, was caught last night slip- 
ping a bundle of dope across. The warden has just 
gone to give him his discharge. How '11 he take it ? 
Will he spill, and bring us in ? 

SMITH — He should know we'll take care of him. 
If the worst comes we can outswear him. What 
most troubles my mind is to find someone to do his 
work. The demand for dope has become enormous, 
and there 's too big a profit in it for us to do Without 
an agent. 

EDWARDS — Listen. Landers has confidence in you. 
Take sides with him against Willetts and commend 
him for his efforts to get better men. Like as not 
he'll ask you to recommend a guard. Then we'll 
get the right kind of a man. I'll tell him you're 
here and at the same time try to give Willets a 
sign to keep his head shut. (Unlocking door left 
center. ) By the way we 've caught that surley devil, 
Bill Simons. 

SMITH — Poor fellow. 

EDWARDS — You always sympathize with him, and 
you 're the only person about prison he '11 treat with 
respect. What 's the relationship ? 

SMITH — Don't joke about relationship. You know 
damned well I 'm a foundling. This fellow respects 
me. He works well. He 's an example of discipline 
in the factory. 

EDWARDS — I only thought you might prevail upon 
him to be Willets 's successor. 



THE FUGITIVE 49 

SMITH — No prisoner agents. It gives them too big 
a lever on you. You will not need assistants unless 
you hurry and stop that fool Willetts's head. 

EDWARDS — Let the visitor in from the court when 
he comes to the door. (Exit.) 

SMITH (alone. Nervously fingers papers on desk. 
Picks up note from table.) Ah. Sylvia's hand- 
writing. (Reads.) "Warden Landers. I wish to 
visit the prison this morning at 10 with a friend. 
Receiving no objections I will consider your kind ex- 
tension of this privilege still in force. Gratefully, 
Sylvia Hart. ' ' She 's coming here. Good. 1 11 beg 
the privilege to hastily break the news. (Door at 
rear rattles. Smith, peers out. Then opens it. 
Enter Wallick.) It isn't to every man who rattles 
that these doors are opened. 

WALLICK — I am glad to take advantage of the ex- 
ception to the rule. Are you connected with the 
prison ? 

SMITH — But semi-officially. 

WALLICK — Perhaps you can gratify my curiosity. 
How long are the prisoners required to work each 
day in those stuffy quarters, 

SMITH — Ten hours, but this is soon to be changed. 

WALLICK — I am glad to hear they will be reduced. 

SMITH — Quite the contrary. They are to be ex- 
tended to twelve hours. 

WALLICK — Outrageous. Is such service necessary ? 

SMITH — The shoe factory is far behind its orders. 



50 THE FUGITIVE 

Honest men cannot go barefoot that thieves may loll 
in idleness. 

WALLICK — Must the feet of freedom walk well shod 
at the price of slavery like this? 

SMITH — You understand these men are criminals. 

WALLICK — They are human beings. 

SMITH — They are sent here for punishment. 

WALLICK — An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a 
tooth? 

SMITH — Such is our law. 

WALLICK — What, then, has civilization done for 
this country? 

SMITH — It has provided laws to safeguard life and 
property of the righteous. 

WALLICK — And institutions like this to dwarf the 
body and damn the souls of unfortunates. 

SMITH (laughing) — What seems to you work, is their 
blessing. Not one of them would be without it. 
Ask them. 

WALLICK — I did ask. They are glad to work to the 
extent of their strength, but — Good God, I saw a 
man working at a leather rolling machine faint and 
fall forward, his arm going into the mangel and 
being crushed to a pulp. He had been on bread 
and water, they said, for three days. Another man 
in a frenzy of passion struck at a guard. He was 
floored by a blow from a club. In his half dazed 
condition, groveling on the ground he chattered 
weird words. As they raised him up a guard dragged 



THE FUGITIVE 51 

from the convict's pocket the remains of a package 
of opium that some human fiend had spirited 
through these stone walls and iron bars to make this 
creature a double slave. Is it not enough that these 
men be deprived of the glorious freedom of this 
country, but that they must be converted into money 
making machines for the state, and a prey for some 
unscrupulous cur who would barter them out of their 
mere pittance of prison wage with a poisonous drug. 

SMITH — Our prisons are not hidden beneath a bush- 
el. Men know the penalty when they choose to vio- 
late the law. 

WALLICK — And when they pay the penalty. How 
are they set afoot upon the world again ? 

SMITH (jauntily) — He is furnished a bran new suit 
of clothes, transportation to that place from whence 
he came and five dollars. 

WALLICK — And he is expected to start a righteous 
life with an emaciated and drug steeped body, a 
cowed soul and five dollars? 

SMITH — There is honest work if they would turn 
their hands to it. Most have learned a trade, if 
they would but employ it. But they are encouraged 
to live lives of crime by this maudlin sentiment that 
makes them martyrs more than criminals. The 
sympathy springs most readily from those in whom 
heredity has planted similar inclinations and from 
whom our prison body is most readily recruited. 

WALLICK (angrily) — You mean to insinuate — 

(Warden enters door at left.) 



52 THE FUGITIVE 

SMITH — Warden Landers may give more gratifying 
answers to your psychological queries. "Warden, I 
am expecting a lady here this morning, will you 
kindly apprise me of her arrival. 

LANDERS — Assuredly. Edwards asked to see you 
concerning the prison workers. He is in the first 
cell house. (Exit Smith left and Warden locks door 
after him.) So you are a preacher, sir? 

WALLICK — Quite the contrary. I am an actor. 

LANDERS — Ah. Well I am relieved. Mr. Wallick, 
whom we expected, I presume? 

WALLICK — Quite your debtor for the liberty of the 
prison. 

LANDERS — Welcome. There are few who enter 
here who can call it liberty. My mistake regarding 
your profession was due to the reference to psycholo- 
gy by Mr. Smith. 

WALLICK — Mr. Smith? 

LANDERS — Oh. Had you not met him ? 

WALLICK — Never saw him before. 

LANDERS — Then I must make you known to each 
other. 

WALLICK — Quite unnecessary. We did that with- 
out formalities. 

LANDERS — Have you seen enough of the prison ? 

WALLICK — Quite enough. 

LANDERS — Does it interest you? 

WALLICK — Very deeply. Tell me, do these men 
ever escape? 



THE FUGITIVE 53 

LANDERS — From prison? Yes. They never es- 
cape their own selves. 

WALLICK — You mean — * 

LANDERS — That practically all these men are crim- 
inals by nature and not by circumstance. They are 
born with an inherited inclination for wrong doing. 
Now here is an escaped convict just captured. He 
was caught with fifty dollars in his pockets — al- 
most too much to gain honestly in two days liberty, 
eh ? If you wait you may see him for he will be re- 
turned here shortly. He has served out many sen- 
tences here and always comes back. He can no more 
become honest than can the savage change the color 
of his skin. Both are blood conditions. His re- 
turns are so sure that to avoid confusion we keep 
ever ready for him his same registration number, 
1878. (Wallick starts.) 

WALLICK — I will wait, in the court if I may. 

LANDERS — Most assuredly (unlocking rear door.) 
The court guard will open for your return when you 
wish. 

WALLICK — I thank you. 

(Wallick goes out and as Landers turns from locking 
the door Sylvia, Cameron and Meyers enter the right 
door. ) 

LANDERS — Ah. Miss Sylvia, I am charmed to see 
you, for you know you have been sadly neglecting 
us of late. 

SYLVIA — Warden Landers, I want you to meet my 
friends, Miss Grace Cameron. 



54 THE FUGITIVE 

LANDERS — Charmed, I am sure. 

SYLVIA — And Mr. Harl Meyers. 

LANDERS — Most welcome, sir. 

MEYERS — Thanks. I feel at home. So long have 
I played death parts the near approach to the elec- 
tric chair is not the least disconcerting. 

LANDERS — Then you are an actor ? 

SYLVIA — Both Miss Cameron and Mr. Meyers are of 
the American. 

LANDERS — Quite a coincidence. We already have 
an actor of the American, a Mr. Wallick here. 

SYLVIA — A prisoner ? 

LANDERS — Oh, no. As guest. He is in the court 
now. Mr. Smith, your father's manager, Miss Syl- 
via, is also here and asked to be told of your ar- 
rival. With your permission I will seek him. Make 
your friends feel as welcome as our surroundings 
will permit. (Exit through left door.) 

MEYERS (who has retired to window left rear and is 
looking out) — By Jove, what high stone walls. 

SYLVIA — Grace, I must go. It seems rude I know, 
but the warden will show you through. After what 
happened I cannot meet Wallick. 

CAMERON — Nonsense, dear. I am sure there is 
some reason why he did not come. He will explain. 

SYLVIA — He gave no hint to you last night, offered 
not a single word of explanation. 

CAMERON — You forget. I was not told of your 
plans, and he would hardly offer explanation to me 



THE FUGITIVE 55 

who was ignorant of a cause for any. He is reserv- 
ing that for you. 

SYLVIA — No. I cannot face him. Think of it. 
After a sleepless night I waited in the rose garden 
before gray streaked the eastern sky, shivering from 
both the chilly air and fright, straining my ear to 
catch the first sound of his approach and peering 
through the dim light for sight of the man I loved 
and by whom I hoped to be carried away to the real- 
ization of happy dreams. And as the sun rose high- 
er, peeking tauntingly over the horizon, I felt my 
face grow crimson as the flowers that bloom there 
in summer time and as the last shadow of night, like 
morning mist, faded before the dancing beams of 
morning just so did my vain hopes dissolve and leave 
me exposed to the glare of day, rejected and 
ashamed. 

MEYERS {from window) — Say girls here comes Wal- 
lick. 

SYLVIA — I must go. 

GRACE {detaining her) — No. It is not your shame, 
but his. {Key can he heard turning in door rear 
right. ) 

SYLVIA — Oh, I can 't. ( She disengages herself from 
Cameron and turns to go to right just as Wallick 
enters the rear and faces her.) 

WALLICK — Sylvia. {Sylvia bows her head, but 
does not raise her hand.) 

MEYERS (to Cameron)— What's the row? 



56 THE FUGITIVE 

CAMERON — Hush. 

WALLICK — I know you believe me cowardly for not 
coming as we planned, but when I explain — 

SYLVIA — There need be no explanation. It is 
enough to know my un worthiness without being told 
the reasons. 

WALLICK — Not that, but you must let me justify 
myself. 

SYLVIA — Since you rejected the one thing such jus- 
tification might win you, it is useless. 

WALLICK — Rejection is not the word. I merely 
scorned the means. 

SYLVIA — Your sudden change of scruples did not 
lighten my embarrassment. 

GRACE — Richard, I think you've acted cowardly. 

WALLICK — Judgment was not passed on the mean- 
est convict in this prison without the right to trial. 
Am I to be condemned without a hearing. (Ed- 
wards enters left door.) 

SYLVIA — Mr. Edwards. We have come to see the 
prison. 

EDWARDS — At your service, Miss Sylvia. We'll 
see the cell house first. (Opening door.) 

MEYERS — And end with the death chamber, I pre- 
sume. (Exit Grace Cameron and Meyers. Sylvia 
almost reaches door.) 

WALLICK — Sylvia — 

SYLVIA (hesitates during a conflict of emotions, but 
finally speaks to Edwards) — I'll wait here. 



THE FUGITIVE 57 

EDWARDS — Very well, Miss. (Exit left center.) 

WALLICK — Sylvia. While hidden in my room 
awaiting my expulsion of Meyers, you were not 
alone. (She starts.) A burglar who had come to 
rob me of wealth just as I had planned to rob you 
of honor, crouched within your reach. But he was 
your friend. When you had gone we clashed. He 
would have struck me down behind my back but for 
some mysterious impulse that suddenly seized him. 
Then was he content to tell me he had overheard 
and to predict I would be as bad a thief as him. He 
said he began by stealing an innocent woman from 
her home. He made me feel a criminal, and I deter- 
mined then to get you honorably. Today I shall go 
boldly to your father and in the name of love de- 
mand your hand. I will prove to him the folly of 
his unjust suspicion. 

SYLVIA — Too late, too late. 

WALLICK — Too late. What do you mean? 

SYLVIA — I am betrothed to Mr. Smith. 

WALLICK — To — Oh. Impossible. Was your love 
then so weak. 

SYLVIA — Not that. But when you left unclaimed 
the heart I threw so boldly at your feet, life seemed 
indeed a worthless waste to me. My own happiness 
destroyed I sought to save at least that of my only 
parent. The staff of love whereon I leaned broken 
asunder patera al affection was my only refuge and 
in filial duty I yielded to the wish that might at least 
bring joy into his life. 



58 THE FUGITIVE 

WALLICK — You do not love this man? 

SYLVIA — I honor my father 's choice. 

WALLICK — This wedding shall never be. 

SYLVIA — What would you do? 

WALLICK — Demand justice. Unmask this wretch 
who has no drop of human sympathy within his 
blood and would make you but a slave to his am- 
bitions. Demand in the name of her who bore you 
the right every woman craves by her own choice to 
fill her heart with joy of love's eternal fount or sor- 
row of despair's black grave. Then. let you choose — 

SYLVIA — It is useless. 

WALLICK — But why — 

SYLVIA — I knew the only way, else Would I not 
have thrust myself into your arms. My father's 
prejudices, though fixed upon the frailest base, are 
proof against dislodgement by either reason, threat 
or plea. It was because I knew my father well that 
I made bold to suggest the only plan by which I 
might become your wife — a plan that failed. There 
is no other way. 

WALLICK — No way ? Love will find a way and — 
God, Sylvia, you have not ceased to love me"? 

SYLVIA — I have no right to answer you now. 

WALLICK — Actions may disclose the thought the 
lips dare not speak. {He takes her in his arms and 
would kiss her.) 

SYLVIA — No you must not — not now. 

WALLICK — Then you do love him ? 



THE FUGITIVE 59 

SYLVIA — Not that, but there is an honor. I am 
bound to respect the word I gave my father to marry 
him until freed from his claim. 

WALLICK — Then this kiss shall free you. 

SYLVIA (straggling) — Stop, you must not. Don't — 

LANDERS (entering left center and advancing rapid- 
ly toward Wallick and Sylvia.) Stop! (Wallick 
and Sylvia separate, Landers stepping to her side 
and Smith, who has followed Landers, confronting 
Wallick.) 

SMITH — Coward ! Your criminal sympathy crops 
out early in the blood. You assault a helpless wom- 
an. Your pretense at goodness is as shameful as 
your debasing act. 

WALLICK — You lie! 

SMITH — You'll answer for this to me ! 

WALLICK — By what right to you ? 

SMITH — This lady is to be my wife. 

WALLICK — You lie again ! 

SYLVIA (grabbing Smith's arm as he would strike 
Wallick) — Don't ! For my sake, I implore you ! 

(Enter Meyer, Grace and Edwards from left in order 
named.) 

MEYER — What 's the trouble ? 

WALLICK — That blackguard there is 

CAMERON — My husband ! (confronting Smith.) 

SMITH — The devil! (Sylvia shrinks away from 
him. ) 

MEYER — Put him in chains ! 



60 THE FUGITIVE 

LANDERS — What does all this mean? 

CAMERON (pointing to Smith) — That man robbed 
me of five thousand dollars after I had divorced him. 
There is a warrant for his arrest. He is a fugitive. 
I demand he be held a prisoner. 

SMITH — Edwards, will you telephone Mr. Hart? 
He will supply my surety. It is all a mistake. 

WALLICK (crossing to Sylvia.) — Sylvia! 

CAMERON (to Smith.) —Mistake? Well, it's one 
for which you will pay dearly now. 

EDWARDS (telephoning.) —No. 1463X. Mr. Hart? 
Will you please step over to the warden's office? 
A little misunderstanding, and Mr. Smith asked — 
Very well. (Hangs up receiver.) He is coming. 
(Telephone rings again and he answers.) What's 
that ? ( To Landers : ) They Ve brought in number 
1878. 

LANDERS — Tell them to bring him up. 

EDWARDS (telephoning.) — Bring him up. 

WALLICK (to Sylvia) — Our burglar. 

(Officers enter right door pushing Simons, who is hand- 
cuffed, before them to the desk at which Landers has 
seated himself and opened register.) 

LANDERS — Well, 1878, back again, eh? We have 
reserved your room for you. (Simons, dazed, does 
not answer but looks questioningly at those in the 
room, while the officers search his pockets.) 

CAMERON (to Meyer.) — How miserable he looks! 

MEYER — He is used to it. Such fellows can't be 
happy outside. 



THE FUGITIVE 61 

LANDERS — Mr. Smith, since formal charge is made 
against you, 1 11 ask you to undergo the formality of 
being searched. 

SMITH — But I protest ! 

LANDERS — A mere formality, you know. In spite 
of Mr. Hart's good offices you will have to remain 
temporarily here in custody pending court routine. 
My duty, you know. Edwards, please search him. 
(Edwards makes search, laying objects on warden's 
desk. Attempts to conceal something just as Lan- 
ders looks up.) What's that ? 

EDWARDS — A small tobacco box, I believe. We al- 
ways leave the usual allowance. 

LANDERS — I'll look at that, please. (Edwards re- 
luctantly hands it over.) Good God! Opium! 
Then you — I wouldn 't have believed it ! I am 
afraid even Mr. Hart can not help you much now. 

SMITH — A box I found on the road outside the walls. 

LANDERS — Oh, very well. We'll search your room 
and effects and if we find no corroborating circum- 
stances we'll believe that story. Handcuff him, Ed- 
wards, to 1878. 

EDWARDS — Yes, sir. (Handcuffs men together 
and motions them to left door, which he proceeds to 
unlock. As they reach door and wait, Wallick 
crosses from left to center and addresses Landers as 
he takes a card and pencil from his pocket.) 

WALLICK — Warden, I feel sorry for this 1878. He 
has my sympathy. Would you mind giving me his 
name? 



62 THE FUGITIVE 

LANDERS — Not at all. While he is best known by 
number and a half dozen aliases, his real name is 
William H. Simons. (Wallick starts, card drops 
from his hand, and he stands dazed when Hart en- 
ters right center.) 

HART (excitedly.) — So this is the trouble! That 
fugitive again? 

SYLVIA — Father! He is no fugitive and I love 
him! (She starts toward Wallick, but Hart stops 
her with his arm, turning half-way to Wallick.) 

HART — Then let him deny ! 

SYLVIA — Richard ! — now ! 

WALLICK (startled by her earnest appeal to grasp 
the psychological moment into a realization of his 
whereabouts, almost shouts:) Now? God! The 
awf ulness of that word ! But a minute since and I 
could have denied the world. But a second is re- 
quired to plunge one from the highest clouds of hope 
to the lowest depth of despair. I am a fugitive ! (All 
start.) Not from the law, but from my own self. 
This petty thievery I thought but a playful caprice 
may be a terrible latent passion running within my 
blood, only awaiting opportunity to break out. I 
stole — great God ! — I stole and cringingly threw 
the ill-gotten thing back toward the town. I fled. 
I sought refuge under the name of Wallick — I made 
the public honor and love an imposter. I have 
cheated the world. I have lived a lie. 



THE FUGITIVE 63 

SYLVIA — No, no ! You are too noble to have been 
aught but your real self ! 

WALLICK— -But I'll be a fugitive no longer! I'll 
draw a streak of red through every poster that bears 
the name of Wallick. I'll check in the blood the 
wish to wear the mask, the impulse to play awrong 
the game of life. I'll build a foundation of truth 
upon which to raise my character. I'll turn back 
the hateful laws of heredity. I'll rub the tarnish 
from the name my mother gave or die. I '11 live and 
act myself. Then know me all — you who would 
scorn or pity — I am the son of 1878 ! 

CURTAIN 
TABLEAU 

Landers 
Edwards, 1878 and Smith 

Wallick 
Sylvia and Hart Cameron and Meyer 



ACT IV 

(The Green Room of the American theatre is located 
directly beneath the stage and the actors' numbered 
dressing rooms extending in a row along one side, 
find commodious space presumably beneath the or- 
chestra floor. Two unnumbered doors in the row 
are labeled "Orchestra" and "Theatre," the latter 
leading, it may well be surmised, to the box entrance. 
At the right side is a door marked "Street Exit" 
and at the left a stairway leading to the stage above. 
The room has been furnished in keeping with its 
name, there being a wealth of rich blue-green up- 
holstering, rugs, etc. Easy chairs are plentiful and 
in the center a large table is covered with dramatic 
publications and current newspapers. Meyer is dis- 
covered sitting on the edge of the table dressed as 
"Mercutio," smoking a cigarette and reading the 
daily paper. He rises impatiently, goes to one of 
the dressing-room doors and raps.) 

MEYER — Grace! 

CAMERON {from behind door.) —Well? 
MEYER — Will you never finish making up ? 
CAMERON — What's the hurry? 
MEYER — I want to see you. 



THE FUGITIVE 65 

CAMERON — Oh! (with a drawl) 

MEYERS (Again seats himself on table and reads, 
only to rise impatiently and again rap on the door.) 
Grace ! 

CAMERON — Well, what is the matter with you? 

MEYER — Have you seen the evening papers ? 

CAMERON — Now you know I only read the papers 
the day following our presentation of a new play. 
Why should I see them tonight ? 

MEYER — There 's a scandalous writeup about Wal- 
lick here. (Cameron emerges from dressing-room 
in costume of Juliet. ) So ! It takes the magic name 
of Wallick to unlock my lady 's door. / could wait. 

CAMERON — Stupid child! Do you know woman 
so poorly to be ignorant that the word "scandal" 
arouses her from deepest lethargy? Forget your 
stupid jealousy. Read me the paper. 

MEYER (reading.) — Noted Actor Proves to be Con- 
vict 's Son. ' ' That 's in black headlines across three 
columns. "Makes Astounding Confession in War- 
den's Office at State's Prison where He Confronts 
His Father." That's two columns wide. "May 
Play a Prison Part Himself in the Next Bill at the 
American. ' ' Now here 's the article : 

"A decided sensation was caused today in dra- 
matic circles when it became known that Richard 
Wallick, leading man at the American, is the son of 
a convict and himself assumed the fictitious name he 
has made famous in order to hide an affair in which 



66 THE FUGITIVE 

he was involved years ago in his home town. The 
news came in the form of a confession from the actor 
himself when he accidentally encountered his father 
while visiting the state penitentiary to secure local 
color for the part of a prison fugitive which fate, 
quite ironically, had destined as his role in the next 
production of the American company. At the time 
of the expose he was in company of Miss Sylvia Hart, 
with whom it is rumored he was secretly engaged. 
The appearance of the girl's father on the scene re- 
sulted in a denunciation that quite rivaled the stage 
itself. 

"Wallick is said to have expressed a desire to 
shake off the nom de guerre. Whether he intends to 
do this before his appearance as "The Fugitive" or 
whether he will appear at all in that part is now a 
matter of wide speculation. Little information 
could be secured at the prison but it is understood 
one arrest was made. Manager Campbell of the 
American refused to discuss the matter. ' ' 
The mercenary old devil! I bet he gave out the 
story himself for sake of advertisement. 

CAMERON — It 's an outrage ! Where is Richard 1 

MEYER — He went up several minutes ago. 

CAMERON — And to think they had to drag her 
name into it ! 

MEYER — Ssh ! 

(Sylvia and Hart enter from theatre.) 

CAMERON — Ah, Sylvia ! I am so glad you are here. 
Dear girl ! 



THE FUGITIVE 67 

SYLVIA — I thought it best. 

CAMERON {extending hand to Hart) — And you too, 
Mr. Hart. Welcome again to our play world. 

HART — Well, to be perfectly frank, young woman, 
I can't share my daughter's opinion that it was best 
to come, but I have spoiled her so long that with me 
yielding has become a demoralizing habit. 

SYLVIA — You see. the papers said 

CAMERON — Yes, dear, I 've seen. It is outrageous ! 

SYLVIA — Well, I thought my presence in the the- 
atre would serve to discredit them. I was bound to 
come, despite the suffering it might cost me. 

CAMERON — And so Mr. Hart was good enough to 
accompany you. 

HART — Good enough ? You don 't think I am going 
to take chances of losing her through this show busi- 
ness, do you? Enough trouble I have already — 
my manager imprisoned, my business disrupted and 
my household cast in gloom — without turning her 
loose here to be stolen from me. 

CAMERON — I hope you do not regret, Mr. Hart, the 
disclosure of Mr. Smith 's true character. He plead- 
ed guilty at once and was sentenced. 

HART — H 'm — no ; but I 'm not going to take on any 
more bad bargains. 

SYLVIA — Father! 

HART — Well, (looking uneasily at his watch) we 
came down here to fix your slipper. We better look 
after it and go to our box. It 's about time for the 
next act. 



68 THE FUGITIVE 

SYLVIA (limps.) Oh! 

CAMERON (to her side.) What is it 1 

SYLVIA — It must be a nail in the heel of this new 
slipper (raising her skirt). 

CAMERON — Sit down, dear (offering chair). 

MEYER (dropping on knee) — Allow me to remove 
it. (He has trouble trying to untie the laces.) 

CAMERON — How pretty! Where did you get 
them? 

SYLVIA — They were made especially for me on 
father's request at the prison factory, and only 
came late today. When father ordered them one 
prisoner volunteered to make them alone — didn't 
you say, father ? 

HART — Yes, yes, dear ( looking nervously at Meyer 
trying to untie knot) . Said he made them all alone. 

MEYER — My, that's a hard knot. (Bell buzzes in 
dressing room.) And there's my bell. 

CAMERON (Another bell buzzes.) — And mine. 

SYLVIA — Well, let the shoe go. I guess I can stand 
it until after the play. 

MEYER — I'm sorry I'm so clumsy, but I'll 

HART (opening door for daughter) — Sylvia ! 
(Bells buzz furiously and all exit rapidly.) 

(The street door opens cautiously and Smith, in con- 
vict's uniform, seeing the way clear, creeps quietly 
in. Applause can be heard in theatre.) 

SMITH — Applause ! Perhaps for her. Fool that I 
was to rush into her presence ! Her hatred is less 



THE FUGITIVE 69 

to be blamed than my own folly. (Door slams and 
he starts, throwing himself back against the wall.) 
God ! What a coward a few hours in that black hell 
have made me ! My ears buzz with the rattle of the 
chains, my eyes burn with the sight of those stone 
walls and I tremble at the thought of joining that 
throng of slaves. Yield to such a hell? What a 
dream it seems ! One daring blow, a dash, the bul- 
lets whistling by my head in the dark, and then 
freedom — but a fugitive! I must act quickly. 
(Creeps cautiously along back wall, tapping lightly 
on each dressing-room door and calling in a hoarse 
whisper:) Wallick! Wallick! (Finding one un- 
locked and ajar he throws open the door and surveys 
the interior.) Wallick's! Empty! (He enters 
and closes door behind him.) 

(Hisses can be heard from theatre. Wallick comes 
slowly down the stairs.) 

WALLICK — Hissed ! Hissed for doing that for 
which I have been cheered a thousand times ! Such 
is the public whim. Wine for which they smack 
their lips when it is served in a silver chalice would 
be dashed in the gutter if offered from a wooden 
bowl. How well to know the hollowness of public 
praise ; how bitter the price of learning it ! I thought 
I had produced a classic characterization of Romeo 
that would go down in history as a precedent for all 
others. I thought I had perfected an art that would 
withstand the critic's cold anaylsis, the rival's jeal- 



70 THE FUGITIVE 

ous sneer and every unjust force that might attack 
it. I worked — not for personal glory but for the 
cause of art, and the plaudits of these many nights 
carried me into the joyful hope that I had built with- 
in the hearts of those who clapped their hands. But 
the public praise was as false to the art as the name 
under which I reared it. They were deaf to the au- 
thor 's words, blind to the actor's portrayal. They 
made the man beneath the mask their idol and quick- 
ly dashed him to the ground when they learned he 
was but flesh and blood. God ! How can it be that 
man of man can have so little human charity ? Why, 
it seems to me that if I saw the world's meanest cow- 
ard in my clothes I would extend a helping hand. 
(He pulls open his dressing-room door. Smith, 
dressed in Wallick's clothes, stands motionless in 
the doorway.) 

WALLICK — What do you want ? 

SMITH — A helping hand. 

WALLICK — My God ! It is really you ! I doubted 
my eyes. I thought you were 

SMITH — In prison ? So I was. 

WALLICK — What do you seek here? 

SMITH — Your clothes. 

WALLICK — To leave me the stripes, I suppose, in 
which you would have falsely paraded me before the 
world. 

SMITH — I did you wrong. 

WALLICK — You embittered against me the keeper 
of the one jewel in this world for which I longed. 



THE FUGITIVE 71 

SMITH — The brightness of that same jewel blinded 
me to justice. 

WALLICK — You sought to build your own fortune 
on the wreckage of other lives. You as ruthlessly 
maligned me to gain possession of that innocent girl, 
as you tried to cast away the first woman who hon- 
ored you. 

SMITH — She has her revenge. 

WALLICK — Revenge ? Justice, you mean. Do you 
think the few years you might spend in prison could 
compare with the years she suffered after you robbed 
and deserted her, fighting her way onward alone un- 
til she could shake off her shame and misery ? She 
faced her responsibility with true womanhood. She 
was weak and yet she bore her cross for years. She 
paid the price, while you, a man, shrink before the 
penalty of your misdoing like a craven coward. How 
gained you your freedom, have you added murder 
to your list of crimes ? 

SMITH — No ; not that. I struck a guard, but only 
enough to fell him for a moment. Then with the help 
of a fellow-prisoner I gained the wall and braved 
the storm of bullets that followed me. 

WALLICK — Preposterous! What prisoner would 
risk his life for you ? 

SMITH — No. 1878. 

WALLICK — My own father! And your gratitude 
is to come here to rob me of my clothes and witness 
my humiliation. 



72 THE FUGITIVE 

SMITH — No ; I come to tell you my grief for the in- 
jury I have done you and to implore of you the help 
I could not dare to hope of any other. 

WALLICK — Help from me, who have greatest cause 
to hate you? Why? Because Bill Simons, who 
helped you, is my father ? 

SMITH — Your father — and mine ! 

WALLICK — You lie ! I was the only boy. 

SMITH — Of your mother, yes. But he had a wife 
before, who died and left me, an infant. That 's what 
he confessed to me and is why he helped me to 
escape. I was put in an asylum when he married 
your mother, and after that I was farmed out. He 
lost track of me until several years ago he encoun- 
tered me as factory superintendent in prison and 
recognized the scar on my cheek. He kept the secret 
until we were fellow-prisoners. 

WALLICK — A weird fairy tale devised by a craven 
brain to promote your escape. 

SMITH — I swear it is the truth. 

WALLICK — You can quickly prove it. He alone 
knows my true given name. What did he say to 
you? 

SMITH — He said to me, ' ; When I was in trouble he 
helped me. Go to him, for Walter is a good boy. ' ' 
( Wallick starts at name of "Walter.") Forgive me 
and let me go from here in your clothes. 

WALLICK — Go. 

SMITH — Thanks. (Stops and takes purse from 



THE FUGITIVE 73 

pocket. ) I thank you for the clothes. I '11 leave the 
purse. 

WALLICK — Take it. I only wish that it were more. 

SMITH (grasping Wallick's hand.) — God bless you! 

WALLICK — And make you live uprightly. 

SMITH — I will ! Good-bye ! 

(Exit Smith. Wallick remains in center listening at- 
tentively. Cameron and Meyer enter from stairway, 
she extending her hand to him sympathetically.) 

CAMERON — Richard 

WALLICK — Wait! (raising his hand forbiddingly 
as he listens. Door slams.) Thank God! (Drops 
his hand and closes eyes to relieve mental strain.) 

MEYER (putting arm about Wallick.) I say, don't 
take it so hard, old man. Your friends are still 
loyal. Don 't let a few unmannered gallery ruffians 
depress you. 

CAMERON — The loyalty of one soul alone should 
sustain you. Sylvia is here and applauded. 

WALLICK — Sylvia ? I saw her face, and though 
her hands applauded, her eyes and mouth betrayed 
intense suffering. My own disgrace is nothing, but 
for all the glory I have had, for all the money I have 
made, I would not have brought this misery to her 
soul. 

CAMERON — I am sure she fears not the loss of your 
fame, but your love for her. She loves you as loyal- 
ly as ever ; Harl is true, and I 

WALLICK — You? Good God! Do you know who 
I am? 



74 THE FUGITIVE 

CAMERON — I know enough that nothing in this 
world could shake my faith in you. 

WALLICK — Who do you imagine slammed that door 
as you came in ? 

CAMERON — I can't imagine. 

WALLICK — Charles Smith ! 

MEYER — I thought he was 

WALLICK — So he was. But he escaped and with 
my help and in my clothes is now away from danger. 

MEYER — You helped him? 

CAMERON — Why should you 

WALLICK — He is my brother. 

CAMERON — Oh! (Sinks in chair, weeping, with 
head upon the table.) 

MEYER — Impossible ! 

WALLICK — For me no misfortune is impossible. 
Bill Simons helped him to escape after confessing 
he was his son by his first marriage. He appealed 
to me for help in the name of brother. I did a bro- 
ther 's duty only to add another shame to the burden 
I already bear. Whatever way I turn the barriers 
forbid me. The prisoner can leave the walls of stone 
that hem him in, but / cannot escape myself. If in 
Romeo 's death tonight the dagger supplants the poi- 
son vial, and Art finds Realism its companion, may 
God have mercy on my soul. (Exit to dressing- 
room.) 

MEYER — Not that, Wallick ! — (dressing-room door 
closes. ) My God ! Grace ! We cannot let him take 



THE FUGITIVE 75 

his life ! Some power must yet appeal to him. Oh, 
God ! Send us a messenger of mercy ! 

(Sylvia enters from theatre door, limping, followed by 
father. ) 

SYLVIA — Grace, in tears 1 Why 

MEYER — It's Wallick. 

HART — Broken another heart, I suppose. 

MEYER (to Sylvia, who is trying to comfort Cam- 
eron.) — It is Wallick needs the help. You must 
speak to him. 

HART — I have forbidden my daughter to have aught 
to do with him. 

MEYER — He may kill himself ! 

HART — Quite natural for a convict 's son. 

SYLVIA — No, no ! 

MEYER — Even now he threatened in the tomb scene 
to actually take his own life. 

SYLVIA — I will speak to him — (Takes step and 
cries out in pain. ) Oh ! 

MEYER — What is it ? (supporting her) . 

SYLVIA — My foot! (Sinks into chair offered by 
her father.) 

HART — That's why we're here. The nail in that 
slipper, I fear, is sharper than she admitted. 

MEYER (dropping on knee.) — I'll do better this 
time. (Takes slipper off and looks within.) Nail, 
yes indeed! (He reaches to girdle as if searching 
for something. Wallick enters and makes for the 
stairs.) Wallick! (Wallick pauses.) Your dagger, 
please. 



76 THE FUGITIVE 

WALLICK — I cherish its possession most dearly to- 
night. 

MEYER — You would not let selfishness override your 
chivalry, by refusing assistance to a lady in distress ? 
(Wallick hesitates.) Then yourself remove the nail 
from the lady's slipper. (Wallick, unsheathing 
dagger, turns and takes slipper and is in the act of 
removing the nail when his eyes become fixed in a 
glassy stare on the inside of the shoe; his hand trem- 
bles and the slipper drops to the floor. Meyer re- 
covers it.) 

WALLICK (hoarsely) — ' ' Prison made. 1878. ' ' 
(Tremblingly hands dagger to Meyer, and slowly 
makes his way to stairs at left.) 

MEYER (working at slipper.) Strange! I see no 
purpose that tack could have served. Looks as 
though it had been purposely put there — just stuck 
through the insole. (Pulls up insole to extract 
tack. ) It was. Here 's a note ! 

HART — What 1 A note ? 

SYLVIA — Who could have sent it? 

MEYER — It's from Bill Simons. (Wallick turns. 
Cameron raises her head, Sylvia leans anxiously for- 
ward and Hart becomes very attentive, while Meyer, 
still on his knee, reads.) "Dear Miss Hart: The 
night you hid in Richard Wallick 's room" — (Hart 
starts, Sylvia raises kerchief to her eyes, Meyer looks 
at Wallick as he sees solution of that night's mys- 
tery.) — I was crouching as a burglar in his clos- 



THE FUGITIVE 77 

et. When you said that prayer asking God to guide 
you right, you were not three feet from me. Your 
hands extended toward me, your pure face seemea 
to pry into my very soul. Maybe God didn't hear 
that prayer, but I did, and in His name I want to 
direct you rightly. I know your love for Wallick, 
and that your heart breaks because he is a convict 's 
son. So I must tell the truth. He is not my son ! " 
( Grace jumps to her feet, Sylvia drops kerchief from 
her eyes, Wallick strides excitedly across to the 
group. ) 

WALLICK— Go on, man! For God's sake, go on! 

MEYER ( reading. ) — ' * I eloped with Wallick 's 
mother just as I prevented him from eloping with 
you. She had a little baby at the time. That was 
Wallick. His real name is not Simon, but that of 
his mother, who was Helen Cameron. 

CAMERON (with cry.) — O-oh ! My mother ! Then 
my brother taken away by her was you, Richard! 
You — my brother! (rushing into his arms.) 

WALLICK — My sister ! Thank God, my heritage is 
not a criminal's blood ! I need not be longer a fugi- 
tive from self. 

MEYER (reading.) —"My real and only son by a 
former marriage is Charles Smith. Wishing you 
happiness and in return for my confession asking of 
you and your friends charity and compassion for my 
boy, who is now a fugitive, I am the man who heard 
your prayer. Bill Simon, No. 1878." (Hands let- 
ter to Sylvia.) 



78 THE FUGITIVE 

SYLVIA — See, father (handing letter to her father), 
how you have wronged him. (Hart silently reads 
the letter again.) 

MEYER — Ah, Richard (taking his hand), forgive my 
many foolish jealousies. It was not strange that 
Grace should love you. I am proud to yield to you 
the closer tie only that I may ask your sanction to 
another that shall make us man and wife. 

WALLICK — It is hard to give away so soon a sister 
just recovered; but there is not a man in all the 
world to whom I would rather trust her. (Delivers 
Cameron to Meyer and crossing kneels at Sylvia's 
feet and picks up her slipper.) Sylvia, I — (pauses 
in his speech, and turns to Hart.) Mr. Hart, may I 
renew my claim to your daughter's affections? 

SYLVIA — Father (pleadingly), he has no taint of 
convict blood. 

HART — Well, he is still an actor. 

CAMPBELL (storming down stairs.) Ho, Wallick! 
Wallick ! — Oh, I beg your pardon for interrupting 
the party, but business is business, and I have no 
time for formalities. After tonight — you are im- 
possible. Accept this as you notice. You are off 
the American cast. (Turning to Meyer.) Meyer, 
report tomorrow for rehearsal for leads. (Exit.) 

WALLICK (rising.) I congratulate you, Harl. You 
see I give you both bride and position. 

MEYER — I regret it through such means. 

WALLICK — I am glad to assume my new role of 
Self. 



THE FUGITIVE 79 

VOICE {from above.) Stage set. Last act. 

MEYER — How can I ever thank you ? 

WALLICK — Be good to my sister. 

GRACE (as bell buzzes) — There's my call. Harl, 
please help me hurry. (Exit up stairs.) 

WALLICK (to Hart.) — I'm not an actor now. 

HART — Well, what right has a man with neither 
name or position to aspire to a woman 's love ? 

WALLICK — I made a position and name for a fic- 
titious person. I should be able to do as much for 
my own self. 

SYLVIA (pleadingly.) —Father? 

HART (to Richard.) — Your logic seems sound. 
Would you accept the management of my factory? 

WALLICK — On one condition. 

HART — And that 

WALLICK — That prisoners be allowed regular wages 
and such be given for support of the innocent, suf- 
fering families. 

SYLVIA — Father, that is only justice. (Hart med- 
itates. ) 

WALLICK (as bell rings.) — That is my call bell. 

HART — You may take the place. 

WALLICK — And Sylvia? 

HART — Well, in the last anaylsis, I always do what 
she wishes. 

WALLICK— Sylvia! 

SYLVIA — Richard! (They embrace. Richard's 
bell buzzes again, and he releases her.) 



JUL 21 1913 

80 THE FUGITIVE 

WALLICK — When I have died as Romeo, I will re- 
turn your modern lover. (Starts for stairs still car- 
rying Sylvia's slipper in his hand. Hart has retired 
to the theatre entrance door awaiting his daughter.) 

SYLVIA — Oh, Richard ! My slipper ! 

WALLICK (returning.) With my name, my position, 
and my reputation I seem also to have lost my head. 

SYLVIA — But you have won a heart. (They em- 
brace.) 

GRUFF VOICE (from stage.) —Last call for Rich- 
ard Wallick ! 

WALLICK (starting.) — The last call for Richard 
Wallick! Thank God! 

(They embrace. Wallick's bell buzzes furiously.) 

CURTAIN 



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